


Contractual Obligations

by chaosmanor



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Poetry, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, This is a love song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clay and Aisha set fire to a motel room, Roque adopts a komodo dragon, Pooch leases a relative to Roque, and Jensen and Cougar write a love song. Oh yeah, and The Losers record their reunion album.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contractual Obligations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/gifts).



> I needed a love song, so I wrote the lyrics to Atone for the fic. I feel like I need to add a disclaimer or apology for that. *cringe*

“There’s a contract on us,” Clay said, looking at the faces crowded around the café table. “We need to act on this.”

Creases and lines. Receding hairlines. The years since he had last seen the others had not been kind, not to all of them.

“This is not okay,” Jensen said. “I am not okay with this.”

“Why are we meeting in a fucking café?” Roque asked, looking mournfully at the mug of whipped cream confection that the waitress had just put in front of him. “Where is the beer? I don’t do meetings sober.”

“No bars,” Clay said. “Too conspicuous, too many fights.”

Pooch checked his watch. “I don’t have long. The Pooch has family obligations, and has to get home.”

Clay waited while the others jeered at Pooch, then said, “Focus, people. This contract has a delivery date on it, and that date is scarily close. What the fuck do we, as a group, want to do about it?”

“The contract isn’t the only delivery date that is soon,” Pooch said, checking his cell phone for messages.

“Can we buy it out?” Jensen asked. “Money fixes many things, including contracts. At least some of us have been sensible with our money and have reserves. I’d be willing to pay to make this go away.”

Clay shook his head. “No, not this time. They’re coming for us, Max and Wade.”

“Plan?” Cougar asked, hunkering down on the flimsy café chair.

“Of course I have a fucking plan,” Clay said.

“I don’t like your plans,” Jensen said. “Your plans suck. Your plans got us into this fucking nightmare in the first place.”

“Stop whining,” Clay said. “You don’t even know what my plan is yet.”

“There are things I won’t fucking do, Clay,” Roque said. “Including work with any of you ever again.”

“We love you too,” Jensen said. “You drunken shi—”

Clay raised a hand, and Jensen stopped.

“My plan,” Clay said. “My plan involves us recruiting some extra talent so we have a chance of surviving the contract.”

“It’s a woman, isn’t it?” Jensen asked.

“Got your thinking clear on this?” Roque asked. “Because every time you mess up it’s because of a woman.”

Jensen and Pooch roared with laughter, along with Roque, and even Cougar twitched his lips.

“Amber wasn’t the problem,” Clay said indignantly. “Amber’s husband was the problem.”

“So who’s this woman you’re not going to fuck, who is going to deal with this contract for us?” Jensen asked, and Cougar nodded wisely in support of the question.

“Aisha al-Fadhil,” Clay said. “She’s a killer.”

The group was silent, seconds dragging out, and then Jensen said, “Set up the meet. Let’s at least listen to her.”

 

Aisha strolled into the meeting room, a back room at Clay’s local bar, looking as lean and gorgeous and dangerous as she had when she had approached Clay the first time with her offer of help.

“Mama,” Roque said, behind Clay’s shoulder, and Pooch muttered, “She ain’t your mama, boy.”

“Aisha,” Clay said, stepping forward to greet her. “Come and meet the group. This is Jensen, and Pooch, and Roque, and Cougar.”

“Really?” Aisha said, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Really? I thought you all had actual names?”

“Not when we’re ourselves,” Clay said.

“So what’s this fucking plan you and Clay cooked up to make this contract go away?” Pooch asked. He was picking at the label on his beer but Clay could tell by his eyes and the set of his jaw he was assessing Aisha, looking for weaknesses. Clay didn’t think Aisha had any.

“Yeah,” Jensen said. “We’ve got a price on our heads, and we have to fix this.”

“Deal with the contract,” Aisha said, tossing a folder onto the pool table, pages of printouts sliding across the green baize. “Pretend you’re fucking grown-ups, and meet your contractual obligations, instead of adult-sized toddlers who used to be in an early Nineties hair metal band together and would now rather do anything than actually make music like fucking musicians.”

Clay grinned, at least on the inside, at the look of horror on the other’s faces. Aisha was damned good. He liked her.

Roque shifted his appalled gaze from Aisha to Clay. “Is this your fucking plan?” he demanded. “To actually record another album?”

Clay nodded. “Yep. It’s been twenty years. Let’s do this.”

Pooch shouted, Jensen banged a pool cue on the table, and Roque slammed a fist into the tasteful fake wood paneling of the wall beside the bar. When Clay looked at Cougar, Cougar’s eyes were flat and dark, but he was chewing his lip contemplatively and watching Jensen, not Clay.

Good, Cougar was onboard with the plan.

“Toddlers,” Clay agreed with Aisha, and handed her a beer.

“So, how does this usually work?” Aisha asked, raising her voice over the background roar of Roque and Pooch shouting at each other.

“Jensen and Cougar write the music, either through some mystical process involving tequila, telepathy and divine inspiration, or possibly lots of fucking,” Clay said. “I’ve never asked.”

Cougar’s gaze had swung back around to Clay, and the brim of his hat dipped, somewhere between amusement and death threat.

Aisha nodded. “Then?”

“We lock ourselves in a rehearsal studio for however long it takes for us to put together the arrangements and learn the tracks. Then we record, and tour, followed by not speaking to each other for between two and fourteen years, depending on how bad the experience is.”

Roque swung a solid fist at Jensen, but the blow didn’t connect because Cougar’s beer bottle thwacked into Roque’s face, knocking him off-center and deflecting the arc of the blow.

“Thanks,” Jensen said to Cougar, who nodded back.

“And we beat the shit out of each other,” Clay added, as an afterthought.

Aisha put two fingers into her mouth and gave a piercing whistle, a true C6 rising into a modulated F sharp, the best portamento without a tremolo bar that Clay had heard, hurting Clay’s ears and brain. The imminent brawl stilled, and the rest of the group stopped and turned to look at Aisha.

“You have three choices,” Aisha said. “Get yourselves killed in court for breach of contract. Deliver an album your usual way. Or, let me show you how to record an album without the drama.”

“How?” Pooch asked. “You got a plan?”

Clay crossed his arms and grinned.

“Sure,” Aisha said. “Firstly, I reckon Jensen and Cougar already have the lyrics and music for an album ready to go. No need for them to go lock themselves in a cabin in the mountains somewhere and drink and fuck for a month.”

Cougar looked nonchalant, rather than enraged. Jensen blushed bright red.

“You two?” Clay asked. “Have you got enough tracks for us?”

“We could put together the material for an album,” Jensen admitted. “Wouldn’t take long.”

“How?” Pooch asked. “None of us have even spoken, not since the tour to Antarctica for the new millennium, and everything that went wrong then!”

Cougar smiled, slow and warm, and said, “Can’t stop the music.”

Jensen went even redder.

Clay was impressed. Whatever suspicions he’d had about the nature of the collaboration between Jensen and Cougar, he’d never thought they’d be confirmed, or that Cougar, of all people, would admit to having stayed in touch with Jensen during the break.

“Yeah,” Jensen said, dripping embarrassment. “We, um, might have the material for an album.”

“Today,” Cougar added.

“See, that wasn’t difficult,” Aisha said. “Next, arranging the tracks. Who actually does that? Honestly?”

Feet shuffled, and Pooch said, “Um, I guess I do. No one ever likes the arrangements, but they can’t do them better, so we wind up using mine anyway.”

Aisha looked at Clay, who shrugged and nodded. “Sounds fair.”

“Roque?” Aisha asked. “Do you agree?”

“Pooch’s arrangements are shit,” Roque said.

“Yours are worse,” Jensen cut in. “You’re the drummer.”

Roque simmered, but didn’t deny either of Jensen’s accusations.

“Cougar? Jensen?” Aisha asked. “Does Pooch understand your compositions well enough to arrange the tracks?”

“We’re a hair metal band,” Jensen said. “I think as long as we all agree that we’re in 44 time, a banana could arrange our tracks and it would be okay. Pooch is much better than a banana.”

“Chords,” Cougar added, and it must have meant something because he and Jensen fist-bumped.

“Then you rehearse and record?” Aisha asked, and everyone shouted for a bit, until Aisha put her fingers in her mouth, ready to whistle again.

When silence had fallen over the room, apart from a Bob Seger track playing in the front bar, Aisha said, “If you let me manage you, we can do this in a quarter of the time and with no injuries.”

“How?” Pooch asked, and Roque jeered. “Yeah, how?” Jensen asked.

“Tonight, Cougar and Jensen will present us with the fifteen tracks they have chosen for the reunion album,” Aisha said, folding down one finger. “These tracks will be accepted by the group without argument. Pooch will take these tracks away and prepare arrangements for the tracks, delivering one track a day over two weeks. You will all agree to his arrangements without argument.” Another finger folded down. “During the two weeks, you will all be in a rehearsal studio, preparing a new track for recording each day, again without arguing.” She folded a third finger down. “Then, you record. Sixteen days to the studio.” Fourth finger folded down, into a mean-looking fist.

“Not possible,” Roque said. “You’re talking about taking us to a recording studio in sixteen days? I refuse to have anything to do with this fucked-up idea.”

“Two words,” Aisha said to Roque. “Session drummer.”

Roque glowered, but went silent.

“What if the compositions are shit?” Pooch asked.

“Or if Pooch’s arrangements suck?” Jensen added, scowling at Pooch.

“Oh, they will be, on both counts,” Aisha said. “I’m not promising you good music, just fast music. If you want good music, you need a year and a different manager, and possibly a different band.”

“We don’t have a year,” Clay said. “We have a contract that says if we don’t record and release a reunion album now, Max gets to play guitar with our intestines.”

“Let’s do it,” Cougar said. “I still fuck Jensen, right?”

“Not actually during rehearsals,” Aisha said. “Outside of rehearsals, screwing is better than punching, and improves the standard of the music.”

“If music be the food of love, I’d rather have a pizza,” Pooch said.

Clay sighed and inspected his empty beer bottle. “Yeah, but you’re married, Pooch. Do we have a plan? A deal?”

Roque looked up from tapping drills on his knees, and said, “It’s going to hurt.”

Pooch nodded. “I’m in.”

Clay waited for the ‘Your Momma’ joke from Jensen, but Jensen nodded and said, “Yeah, let’s do this Aisha’s way, because we sure can’t do it by ourselves.”

Cougar nodded, two dips of his hat.

Clay looked at Aisha, and said, “Welcome to The Losers.”

 

The rehearsal studio Aisha had booked for them was an empty warehouse, dank and echoing.

“No way,” Roque said, shaking his head at the trailer parked inside the warehouse. “No fucking way.”

Clay nudged his duffel bag against Roque’s back. “Consider this an incentive to finish this process as quickly as possible.”

Jensen shuffled sleepily into the warehouse and stood beside Clay. “Couldn’t we afford somewhere with plumbing? Or electricity?”

“Port-a-John is behind the trailer,” Aisha said, wheeling in a water cooler and setting it beside the trailer. “There’s electricity, once one of you gets the wiring fixed. Pooch is backing the truck up, so get ready to unload the gear.”

“What’s the zoning here?” Jensen asked, shouldering his pack and pushing open the trailer door.

“Industrial,” Aisha said. “We can make as much fucking noise as we want out here.”

“Awesome,” Jensen said, and he sounded positive for the first time since Clay had called him the week before. “Let’s make a lot of noise!”

Clay glanced at Aisha, who was looking around the grubby warehouse with satisfaction. “Sure,” Clay said. “Wait until they find out we can’t get pizza delivered here.”

Aisha grinned at Clay. “I have a plan for that, too. I have a plan for everything.”

Clay crinkled the corners of his eyes at Aisha. “Yeah?”

Aisha thinned her lips at Clay disapprovingly, but he was certain her eyes were laughing back at him.

“Consider the pizza covered. Put your bag on a bunk and come and shift speaker stacks,” Aisha said.

Twenty minutes later, while Jensen hung from the rafters by his knees and rewired the main cable to the lighting in the warehouse, Clay followed Aisha out into the fitful sunshine.

“You going to complain?” Aisha asked, leaning back against the creaking steel of the warehouse wall.

“Nope,” Clay said. “I came out here to tell you how impressed I am with your management style. I have never seen this lot work together as well as they have over the past day. No other manager has ever done this well.”

“You do know that Roque just threatened to kill you? When he was lifting the stacks off the truck?” Aisha asked.

Clay shrugged. “Do I look tense?”

“Yes,” Aisha said, reaching out to poke a fingernail at Clay’s shoulder, where, yes, his muscles were tied in knots.

“I’m not tense,” Clay said. “We’ve not broken out the first aid kit, and we’ve been doing this for hours. This is awesome.”

Aisha grinned. “How the fuck did the five of you release four albums without me?”

“I have no fucking idea.”

 

By the end of the day, the first aid kit had been put into use, and they had one less six stack speaker then they’d started with. Jensen would heal, with superglue and antiseptic cream, but the stack was dead. The first song, a classic set of Jensen lyrics about fast cars and lost youth set to a surprisingly complex Cougar melody containing more than two chords, was arranged and most of The Losers could play most of the song. Aisha’s pizza plans had worked, though the beer ration was gone long before the pizza.

Clay patted Pooch on the shoulder, and left him alone at the folding picnic table Aisha had provided, with his laptop, working on the next day’s song. When Clay opened the trailer door and glanced in, Roque was flat on his back on a bunk, mouth open in a grunt, his hand still curled around the neck of the bourbon bottle.

Roque would need rehab, again, before they could tour.

It was going to be okay, as okay as The Losers ever could be.

On the fourth day, Clay and Roque were thrashing their way through the bassline of that day’s ode to drinking and being stupid, when a sleek, clean sedan pulled up at the open door of the warehouse.

Roque threw his sticks down, his face bleak with unhappiness, and mopped his face on the towel draped around his neck. Clay let the notes from his bass die in echoes around the warehouse as Max stepped out of the sedan.

Wade, Max’s bodyguard and gofer, followed Max into the warehouse.

“Fucking hate these dudes,” Roque muttered, and Clay silently agreed. Label executives weren’t always stone cold crazy, but this one was.

“Losers,” Max said, looking around and sneering at the trailer, Port-a-John and picnic setting. “Losers.”

Pooch emerged from the Port-a-John, his cell phone against his ear. Clay could hear him saying, “Call me, as soon as you’ve seen the midwife… love you…”

Wade smashed a fist against the side of the trailer, rocking it and making the warehouse ring with the sound, and a moment later Jensen and Cougar stumbled out of the trailer, bleary and rumpled.

“I gather that I’ve just heard the entirety of your new album,” Max said, flexing his hand inside its glove. “Minimalist?”

Clay unplugged his bass and stood it in its stand. “That’s the fifth track.”

“They’re making music, Wade,” Max said. “Why are they making music, Wade?”

“Do you want me to stop them?” Wade asked, looking around hopefully.

Aisha unfurled herself from the banana lounge she had appropriated and swayed her way across to lean against Clay.

She looked like a groupie, in her tight jeans and ripped t-shirt, and Max’s eyes didn’t even rest on her as he scanned around the warehouse. Wade, more suspicious and possibly not as crazy, looked at Aisha closely.

“Want me to take them down?” Aisha asked, her voice low enough only Clay and Roque could hear.

Clay rested a hand across her lower back, a message to wait, and said, “What do you want, Max?”

Max flicked fingers, and Wade said, “You’re booked in the recording studio on the 17th. We wanted to let you know. If you don’t turn up with an album to record, I’ll be letting Legal know.”

“We’ll be there, with an album,” Clay said. “Now get the fuck out of our warehouse.”

The sedan glided away, into the industrial wilderness, taking Max and Wade with it, and Pooch said, “17th? Jolene has an appointment with the ObGyn on 17th. I promised her I’d go.”

“You’ll go,” Aisha said, pointing at Pooch. “Don’t you dare miss that appointment.”

Roque cleared his throat and said, “17th? I have to take my granmamma to the dentist on 17th.”

“You don’t have a grandmother,” Jensen said. “That’s why you always borrow Pooch’s, when you need one for a publicity photo shoot or a court appearance.”

“I need to take Pooch’s granmamma to the dentist on 17th,” Roque said.

“My grandmother doesn’t have any teeth,” Pooch said. “And she’s only your grandmother for the special hourly rate we all negotiated, and with four weeks’ notice. I’ll tell her you’re trying to use her to get out of work, and then you’ll regret ever having leased her in the first place.”

“Your relatives are fucking mercenary,” Roque complained. “And can we talk about Cougar and Jensen? Am I the only one who sees this?”

“No fucking on company time,” Aisha said, stomping over to Jensen and straightening his t-shirt. “You are on the clock!”

“Writing song,” Cougar said.

Clay thought about pointing out that Cougar’s shirt wasn’t buttoned up right, but decided not to.

“We have fifteen songs,” Clay said.

“Is it a good song?” Aisha asked. “Is it better than, oh, the incoherent drivel of 'Midnight Road'?”

Jensen frowned at her. “What’s wrong with 'Midnight Road'?”

“It sucks,” Clay said. “We can tell you, or the general fucking public can tell you. Which works for you?”

“Good song,” Cougar said. “Four chords.”

Pooch groaned. “That’s just excessive.”

“And a bridge,” Cougar insisted.

“Play it for us,” Aisha said. “With all of the chords.”

Jensen shrugged at Cougar, who nodded back at him. The pair of them disappeared into the trailer briefly, then returned with acoustic guitars.

Jensen’s voice, unamplified, was low and a little rough, and he didn’t play a six string with any skill, but he sounded earnest and raw when he began to sing. Cougar, leaning over his acoustic with his hat hiding his face, played like the country musician Clay suspected he secretly was.

_For all the empty words_   
_For all the nights alone_   
_For all the hollow promises_   
_And broken lies_   
_For this I atone_

_If you’ll let me in,_  
 _If you’ll let me try again_  
 _If you’ll take a chance_  
 _On this broken man_  
 _I will atone_

_I can offer you a beginning_  
 _I can offer you my future_  
 _I can offer you all of_  
 _My broken love_  
 _When I atone_

Cougar played on after Jensen had finished singing, repeating the four bars of the melody one more time, then let his strings still.

Clay looked around at the others. Roque was sitting on a six stack speaker, staring up at the warehouse roof, his face blank. Pooch was hunched over, sitting on an upturned empty crate, his face wistful. Aisha’s eyes were wide and shining, her mouth soft and gentle, and Clay wanted to kiss her, right there and then.

Cougar cleared his throat, and Jensen said, “And?”

“Acoustic track for the album,” Aisha said. “Fucking awesome work, guys.”

“You like it?” Jensen asked.

“Best track on the album,” Aisha said. “Best track you two have ever written.”

“It’s not too different?” Jensen asked.

Clay walked over to where Jensen was still sitting at the picnic table, page of handwritten scribble in front of him, and patted his shoulder.

“It’s awesome,” Clay said. “Love it.”

Pooch cleared his throat. “It is. Jolene is going to go crazy over it.”

Roque nodded, and said, “Can we go back to rehearsing?”

That night, when Roque had drunk himself into a stupor, and Pooch was in the middle of his marathon evening phone call to Jolene, Clay followed Aisha out of the warehouse and into the darkness of the night.

“Hey,” Aisha said to him, when he leaned against the warehouse wall beside her. “Decided to give Jensen and Cougar some privacy?”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Clay admitted. “Was hoping to catch you alone.”

Aisha’s teeth gleamed in the pale streetlight, and Clay grinned back at her.

“Yeah?” she asked. “Why?”

“Wanted to kiss you,” Clay said. “How would you feel about that?”

“Sounds like conflict of interest,” Aisha said. “Could be problematic, me being the band’s manager and all.”

“Sure,” Clay agreed. “If you weren’t the manager?”

“I’d be interested.”

Aisha was a shadow beside Clay, a whisper in the darkness.

“Can we deal with the conflict of interest?” Clay asked.

“Fuck it,” Aisha said, and her hands grabbed the front of Clay’s hoodie and dragged him closer.

She tasted of beer and tacos, but her mouth was soft and open. Clay was too old and lonely to stop kissing her, so he waited for her to push him away so they could breathe.

“I’m not sleeping with you in the trailer,” Aisha said. “Just so you know.”

“Damn.”

Clay stayed outside after Aisha had gone back in to the light of the warehouse. The cool steel against his back ran counterpoint to the heat in his belly.

Eleven days until they moved to a motel next to the recording studio and started laying down tracks.

 

 

“Wow, it’s everything a girl can dream of,” Aisha said, following Clay into his motel room, bottle of bourbon in her hands.

Clay shrugged. “Blame Roque. We used to be able to stay in decent hotels, but then he got put on some secret list, and now this is all we can book.”

“I’m going to talk to Roque about his drinking,” Aisha said, throwing herself across Clay’s bed and resting the bottle on the nightstand. “I’ve had to schedule all of the drum track sessions for between 11.30 am and 1.00 pm, because that’s the only time he’s functional.”

“He doesn’t listen to talk.” Clay flopped down beside her and kicked his shoes off. Fuck, he hoped his feet didn’t stink too much. “He really doesn’t listen to people talking to him about his drinking.”

Hang on. Aisha had lived in the trailer with them for two weeks. There was no stench left unsmelled between them.

Clay liked it when that was sorted out right at the beginning.

“I manage rock bands,” Aisha pointed out, lifting each leg up in turn and unzipping her boots. “I know how to have this talk.” Under her boots, she wore thick, sensible socks. Clay was impressed.

“I was going to arrange candles and flowers, that sort of thing,” Clay said, hauling his t-shirt off and lifting an arm up so Aisha could roll in closer. “But after a day and a night in the studio, this was all I could manage.”

He pulled a packet of birthday cake candles out of the pocket of his jeans and held them out to Aisha.

“The cake would have been better,” Aisha said, taking the packet from him. “For the record.”

“No cake,” Clay said. “Sorry.”

Aisha tore the packet open and held the candles out to Clay. It took some fiddling with his lighter, but Clay got the flickering candles glued to the nightstand with melted wax.

“That’s better,” Aisha said rolling on top of Clay, straddling him. “I feel like you made an effort.”

“I’m about to make a lot of effort,” Clay said. “As middle-aged rock stars go, I’m athletic.”

“Are you trying to turn a yes into a no?” Aisha asked, peeling her t-shirt off.

“Fuck, no,” Clay said. Aisha was unbelievably hot, and Clay ran fingertips up her ribs, making her shiver and giggle.

“Good,” Aisha said, leaning forward to brush her mouth against Clay’s, her hair swinging forward and hanging heavy around his face. “I’d hate to turn down a man who was considerate enough to have provided birthday cake candles.”

Clay rolled them both over, so he had Aisha pinned to the mattress. “How’s the conflict of interest working out for you?”

“It’s all good,” Aisha said, wriggling against Clay, hips and belly and breasts, all against his skin.

Her jeans came undone sweetly, and Clay lifted his weight on one arm and eased the fingers of his free hand down her belly.

“We good?” Clay asked, and he could hear how rough his voice was, like it was the end of a thirty-country tour.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Aisha said, winding arms around Clay’s neck and pulling him down close enough she could kiss him.

The birthday candles flared at the edge of Clay’s vision, splashing red and gold sparks, and Clay eased his fingers into Aisha’s underwear. Her skin was hot, like it was on fire, and she moaned into Clay’s mouth, lifting herself up, shifting against his fingers, then sinking back down again when he found soft wetness.

They rolled again, off the bed, crashing to the floor, scrambling out of jeans and underwear. Aisha kicked out, catching Clay in the ribs as he grabbed for the rubber in the back pocket of his jeans. He got his mouth on her and she grabbed at his hair, burning up.

He got the rubber on, and both of them to their feet and against the bathroom door. Long, long experience said never fuck on motel room carpet, the friction damage killed.

He sank into Aisha, sweetest bliss, her weight driving him in deeper when she wound her legs around his hips.

“Okay?” he gasped. Fuck, it had been a long time, and he was too old for this.

“Fire,” Aisha said, against Clay’s shoulder.

“Hold on,” Clay said, and Aisha did, her arms around his neck, lifting her weight up so he could begin to move, cautiously.

The alarm was very loud, and very close, and it almost put Clay off his stride. Almost.

“Hang on, babe,” Clay grunted, hefting Aisha higher up the wall and shifting his grip on her thighs to ease the burn in his arms.

Burn. Yeah, he could smell burning. It was probably Aisha, the way she was pushing back against his cock, squirming and pushing him in deeper and deeper.

“What’s that noise?” Aisha asked, between moans.

“The phone,” Clay said, because no fucking way was he stopping, not then, no matter what.

Aisha arched her back and yelled, someone pounded on the door, and Clay gritted his teeth and hung on tighter. Nearly there, nearly there, a little more and the ache would be an explosion in his belly…

The crash of the motel room door giving way was loud, even over the persistent wail of the siren.

Pooch shouted, “Got your back, Clay!” and Jensen appeared in Clay’s peripheral vision, fire extinguisher in his hands.

Aisha started laughing, shaking against and around Clay, and it didn’t matter that Jensen was spraying the room in fire extinguisher foam, or that Pooch was shouting, or Roque was howling with laughter in the doorway…

“How did you not notice?” Jensen demanded, hefting the fire extinguisher in Clay’s face. “How did you not notice?”

 

Clay stood at the recording studio side door and looked worriedly across the parking lot to where Aisha and Roque were sitting on the hood of what could only be a label executive’s Ferrari.

Clay felt a bit better.

Aisha was talking gently, her hands on Roque’s forearm. Roque was listening, his face creased and crumpled. No punching. That was good.

Ten minutes later, Aisha and Roque walked into the sound booth, where the tech was running over levels with Jensen for the vocal track of ‘Atone’.

“Hey,” Roque said. “Can you hear me, Jensen?”

Jensen lifted his hand and tapped his earphones.

“I’ve decided to go to rehab,” Roque said. “Soon as the drum tracks are laid down. Need to get my head clear before we tour.”

There was hugging. Clay approved. The Losers should hug more often.

 

“What is it?” Jensen asked, eyes wide in horror, as Roque sat down at the table in the cafe, a squirming lizardy thing in his arms.

“A komodo dragon,” Roque explained, petting the head of the giant fucking baby lizard.

“You can’t bring it to a café,” Clay said. “It’s a lizard.” The lizard looked like it could either eat or poop on everything in the café, including the people.

“Why?” Cougar asked, leaning away so the dragon couldn’t lick him.

“It stinks,” Jensen said. “It really stinks.”

“As part of my recovery,” Roque said. “It’s important that I learn to nurture another living thing, before I try and have a relationship with a person. They told me to have a houseplant, but that was so ga—”

Jensen leaned across the table and punched Roque solidly in the side of his jaw, and the dragon hissed at him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Roque said, rubbing the side of his face on his shoulder, since both of his hands were full of dragon.

“Don’t say that,” Cougar snarled.

Pooch was glaring at Roque, and Clay crossed his arms and nodded.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Roque asked.

“Yes,” Aisha said. “Behave, all of you. We need to talk about the album release and the tour.”

Pooch groaned. “You do all remember Jolene is about to have another baby?”

“Bring Jolene and the kids on tour,” Aisha said. “This is going to be a family-friendly tour. No booze, no drugs, no fights, no arrests.”

No one argued or complained, and Aisha leaned back in her chair, looking pleased.

“Okay,” Pooch said. “I’ll bring the family.”

Roque patted his lizard’s head. “It’s okay, Max,” he murmured. “You can be my friend on the tour, if everyone else is bringing their special friend.”

“First single is going to be 'Atone',” Aisha said. “Second will be 'Late Harvest'. Tour dates are lining up sweetly. Max, the other one, not the lizard, called me this morning to confirm that the label has listened to the final cuts of the tracks and approved them all.”

“So we’re done,” Clay said.

“Apart from the photo shoot for the album, and finalizing the PR,” Aisha said.

Pooch’s cell buzzed, and he pulled it out and checked it.

“Not done yet!” Pooch said. “Jolene’s waters have broken. The Pooch has to go have a baby.”

“You’re not going alone,” Clay said, and Aisha nodded. “We’re all coming with you.”

Pooch looked up from his cell, where he was messaging Jolene back.

“Including the lizard?” Pooch asked.

“Including the lizard,” Aisha said. ”Let’s go!”

 

They put the lizard and the new baby on the cover of the album.


End file.
